


Goodbye And Welcome

by Filigranka



Category: Chronicles of Amber - Roger Zelazny
Genre: Multi, One Shot Collection, Politics, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27268264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: Various women of Amber, trying to live, survive, love.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8
Collections: Fic In A Box





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_rck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rck/gifts).



Their contract demanded for Cymnea the same freedom and rights Oberon possessed. She already had her own court, paid from Amber’s treasure, full of nice-to-look-at young men and women bright, beautiful, and quick to learn ars amandi, so at first, this bastard feigned surprise. What else could his Most Respectable Wife want to fulfil the mirror-contract’s demands?

‘My family lost two heirs in _your_ \--Amber’s--war,’ she reminded him.

Oberon had chosen not to deal with Osric and Finndo openly, but murder them with others’ hands, so let them reap the consequences. He couldn’t not treat them as heroes and her, as the mother of martyrs.

The loss still pained her. But Cymnea had been born for politics, war and power. She understood the game. She had tried to warn her sons, but they were just as foolish, vain and stubborn like all men – and young, so young. Oberon had had all the advantages.

‘I grieve for them.’

Oberon wouldn’t grieve for the Unicorn even, but Cymnea could have appreciated this token of kindness, if she didn’t know Oberon _grieved_ with blue-eyed, night-haired fair Faiella in his bed.

It was far from Oberon’s first soapy romance story, nor his first illegitimate child. But it was the first damn time when he had dared to make a mother from one from her own ladies, the one she’d adored and courted, the one which already had started to show some interests in Cymnea’s efforts!

Oscric and Findo had signed their sentences themselves, and Cymnea could make peace with this. But she’d signed her own contract, too, and this humiliation, this defeat, this double betrayal, this, this – this matter of Faiella was a grave breach of it!

‘Amber appreciates the sacrifices your family and you, personally, made for our cause. I myself appreciate your contribution immensely. That’s why I ask – what exactly I could do, what Amber could do to repay?’

‘Freedom to bear children as I please,’ she answered, and laughed straight into his shocked face.

He composed himself quickly.

‘You mean divorce.’

Cymnea shook her head. ‘My family and country doesn’t respect divorcees.’ And you know about it, and yet it didn’t stop you from planning it recently, leaving me in disgrace – and honouring the one who had betrayed me.

‘I can announce our marriage void, then.’

This was meant as a threat. It’d take away Benedict’s rights to the crown – but Cymnea and her family didn’t give damn about the throne of Amber. Whenever Oberon died, it would be generations from now. Sacrificing their current position and Cymnea’s honour for the sake of a future so far away their name might be forgotten in it would be a pure, stupid vanity.

Benedict agreed, not that Cymnea’s family would have cared about his opinion, not after Osric’s and Finndo’s ideas had proven to be such a disaster.

‘Mirror-contracts are sworn on blood, salt and scorched earth, the ones to end or start wars,’ she smiled. ‘And magic binds even Unicorn and the Pattern. Play before your lovers and courtiers, if you want to. Tell them _you_ annulled our marriage. Tell them I walked the rainbow to the high heavens. Tell them the earth swallowed me whole. My family doesn’t care about your subjects. But we know one side aloe can’t dissolve the mirror-contract’

His lips thinned. For a second, she was afraid she’d kill her and sacrifice Faiella and, who knows, perhaps all his future wives.

But no – she guessed right, he was still in the honeymoon phase of his love for her. He opened his arms. Such an obvious trick. Cymnea raised her chin, hoping this one gesture showed her whole disdain.

‘A big kingdom of our own for my family. A _nice_ kingdom. And not a border one. Pension for me for the years I spent serving Amber and fulfilling the official consort’s duties. My court goes with me and I expect you to pay for its transition… And of course, the children I bore through these years and the children you sired through them have to share the same… legal status.’

Oh, this enraged him. As though not being able to give his bastard legitimacy would lessen his triumph – as though it’d be _spoiled_ Fa… his prize. Cymnea wondered briefly if that poor, beautiful, silly girl would ever realise Cymnea actually did her a favour. For a low price of the lesser legal, purely theoretical (and very unimportant, considering Oberon’s lifespan) status of one son, Faiella would get a powerful tool: Oberon’s offended pride. Cymnea wagered he’d love his new mistress all the more for it, just to show to all the worlds and himself he wasn’t prevented from doing so by his previous wife, just to keep said wife from scoring a point in their games.

Well, it wasn’t like Cymnea hadn’t her own reasons to be merciful to her dear treacherous lady in waiting. First, pity felt nice – and she knew others would pity _her_ , infuriatingly; it would be nice, then, to have someone, something, even hidden, to feel satisfaction and pity over. Second, no matter what lies Oberon would feed himself, she was still going to count this as a point – a win – for herself. Third, this was the game she’d breathed for a long, long time, a game pushed into her veins with her first, post-birth scream – and so, to know she’d control Oberon’s actions, feelings and public image for a long time after her departure, was a sweet, intoxicating pleasure.

He’d notice at some point, of course, when his arrogance and contempt would stop blinding him. It’d take him some time to believe it – a part of Cymnea wanted to see it, to relish in rumours, but another, more reasonable one, hoped she’d be already dead then; this should have been enough to protect her family from… repercussions. But if Faiella played her cards, her chance, well, he’d already be tied

But for now, he’s just angry, spluttering some veiled threats and offences. Cymnea waves a hand.

‘My dear lord, you know just as well as I do that mirror-contracts have rules to them, rules so old they’d been made before the first person bearing my family name was born. They’re not my doing and not my choice.’ Hers was only the choice to use them. ‘True, I guess we could not ask for paying the court’s reinstating expenses, but isn’t generosity and grace the true crown jewel of any suzerain?’

Oberon chuckled, his anger, she saw, partly disarmed. He’d still try to cheat her family, Cymnea had no doubts about it – but oh, she planned to fight for _her_ little, _nice_ kingdom – retirement – till the very last curtsy, the very last smile.


	2. Clarissa

Incense’s smoke filled the air of the TaJado, High Temple of Svitesh. Every time Clarissa’s looked up from the alabaster floor and through the window, the sky was brighter. Now, it was already grey like ash—she could imagine the sun, already at the brim of the lake, not gold, but white from lightness.

She prayed. It was an innocent enough activity for the goddess reincarnated—except in the matter of her prayers.

Clarissa was supposed to plead to other gods for a good service for the next incarnated, and a good, fruitful next life for herself. Her family already had chosen the husband for her; they swore he was better, richer, nobler than she—they—would have once dared to dream. Marrying an ex-goddess was supposed to bring good luck. A touch of the divine on the body eradicated any birth differences, making a peasants’ daughter a worthy wife for a prince.

A dream life for said peasant girl. Not so much for a women before whom the king of all lands had fallen on his face a mere week later. No body could serve the goddess infinitely. But at this point, Clarissa would have preferred death.

She looked up again. The sky was turning white. Her silk robes were heavy from silver and pearls; she doubted she could make a knot from them. But perhaps the needles holding her hair would be sharp enough…

Behind the line of rays, the air and shadows moved like an opened curtain. Clarissa held her breath.

‘O, beautiful lady, mistress of this place,’ said a young, tall, dark-haired man, bowing. ‘Would you be so kind and–‘

‘Are you P’run, God of Thunder, Rain and Those Who Despair, answering my prayers? Have you come to take me away? Hurry, then!’ she commanded.

Maybe she shouldn’t have spoken like this to the god. Wasn’t her body the most treasured home of the goddess, too, if only for a little while?

The man chuckled.

‘Oh, I’m so much more than any of your petty gods, my lady. But I can appreciate the fire in your veins and the charm in your face; strong will and beauty are the only true powers among worlds.’

‘You speak in riddles, and the time is nigh!’

‘We’re in some sort of troubles, then?’ P’run (Clarissa was still convinced it was him) reached to her. ‘I love to save damsels—‘

‘…goddess. Living embodiment of the divine,’ she corrected fiercely. God or not, he had to respect her domain: fertility, magic, luck.

‘Ah-uh. Even better. You will see that I can be a very pious creature… I spent so many nights adoring and praying to god-like beings like you.’ He smiled. ‘My Lady Of Thousands of Virtues, how do you fancy an adventure?’


	3. Paulette

‘You should come more often,’ said the neural ghost of her mother. The slight complaint in her voice was indeed a perfect copy of the tone she would have used if she was alive. She hadn’t been dead long enough for the neural net to acquire a set of experiences wide enough to learn from it and change, ever so slightly, like a meat-person would have.

So overall, thought Paulette, it was a real blessing her parents adored her kids. These visits would have been unbearable otherwise.

Talking about kids allowed her not to talk about her deteriorating marriage. Not talking about marriage allowed her to avoid the endless concerned bragging or bragging concern – “Weren’t we right, honey? But don’t tell us we didn’t warn you! We told you! You didn’t listen!” and the like.

It’d have been easier if her parents had simply disliked Oberon. Paulette could put their foretelling on hostility against foreigners, not wisdom. But her parents had loved – loved still, perhaps—the neural net tended to adjust with a sub-human latency, especially to subtle communications – Oberon! They’d been thrilled to get proof that the theory of multiverses had been true! They’d talked with him for hours, asking about Amber and other worlds – they had never managed to get accustomed to calling them “Shadows,” when they’d been so different from one another; and Oberon had indulged them, using “worlds” or “instances” instead – about their customs, history, physics and ecosystems…

But for all their love of Oberon, her parents had claimed the marriage would have been a terrible idea. Ditto Paulette leaving her motherworld for Amber. “These are not mere cultural differences,’ they had told her. ‘We’d not mind if you take someone from the other worlds Oberon talks about. But not _him_. He’s a different being, an example of a different species, for all he likes to take our form. The difference between someone who knows one world and the one who wanders though a million and finds the one he likes the most are too vast. He’d always think he literally dreamt you into existence, that you’re his fantasy, the one he had a whim to flesh out. Whether he is right or not, he’d think so – and so would his court.”

Her parents had been so right that Paulette had to wonder from time to time if Oberon, fond of their curiosity and less guarded around those he’d have not been courting, hadn’t told more then he’d wanted to, hadn’t showed them a glimpse of an ancient, ruthless, capricious power – the god he’d been, he was, he’d be.

Or perhaps she was unfair, thinking it had to be Oberon’s mistake, not her parents’ wisdom. It was just – even after all these years, the rebellious young girl in her preferred anything to admitting her parents were simply _right_.

‘I can’t,’ she answered.

It was true. She was already taking her vacation too often, according to some courtiers, especially the ones hoping to get their family members into Oberon’s bed. The number of lovers the King kept rose with Paulette’s every leave – and he was pouting every time she came back. Pouting. As though she was forcing him to take these lovers and then entertain them. As though it was all her fault.

Arrogant _neural-note-bug_.

But if she actually divorced him, she’d need to leave her kids behind. They were legitimate, crown kids of Amber – and while she didn’t give a damn about that, others did. And what was worse, the damn was given by other Amberites, those who could walk through Shadows, come here and – tie a loose end. Simplify the matter of succession. Get rid of an rival.

The door clicked. The kids swished past her, running to the backyard. Her father’s neural ghost must have finished reading them a book – not the ones about knights and princes, but about science, technology, history, culture and everyday life of her fatherworld. Especially the stories about the normal life of kids: playing with the animals, robots, composing their first parts of neural programs…

The kids are so skinny, Paulette thought and her heart suddenly ached, and tiny, too, how will they survive at the Court?

Another step was predictable. When the kids went out of earshot, bot neural nets drowned her in words: you can, you can, there’s always a choice, we can help you, leave the kids here. Tell them you had a romance, tell them they’re illegitimate and bring them here. Bring them here, before they’ll learn to walk through the multiverse. They won’t pose any danger to their siblings, then. You can do it.

‘But I didn’t have a romance! They’re his kids, you think Oberon would ever…!’

‘It doesn’t matter what truth is. What matters is keeping the kids out of danger by making them irrelevant.’

‘And making me into a–‘ She couldn’t bring herself to finish.

She couldn’t stop Oberon from divorcing her, if – when – he’d take a liking to one of his paramours, but she wasn’t going to make it easier for him.

Also, let’s be honest…

‘He would never allow me to do this. It’d be too humiliating, Amber’s image would be damaged, his ego would be damaged. He’d sooner kill me… And he’d confirm once again that the kids are his. Might even give them some new, shiny titles or nice county somewhere near Amber. It would do nothing, nothing to help.’

‘You don’t even try.’

‘Because it’d kill us!’

Her ghost parents still tried to convince her. “You can’t be sure. You didn’t try to talk to him, ask him – beg him, if needed – to send you and kids away. He had tons of other kids in other worlds, you said so yourself! Try the same route!”

And then that old, old trick of her parents, accusing her she’s too proud, that she exchanges her children’s happiness for her vanity. And damn it all, perhaps she was, deep down, perhaps she really was so egotistical – or just a ridiculous, rebellious teen again, not wanting to admit they were right.

She started to hesitate, turn the possibilities over in her head, imagine melodic lines and variations, and then the same, but transcribing the lines to the neural net’s command. Oberon had used to say it had been pretty rare among Shadows, this… predilection to tying these two particular fields of art together, that cultures tend to divide them between “technology” and “art.” Paulette had used to find this bit fascinating. It’d made her feel exceptional and – ah, let’s give this to her parents – _proud_ , less of herself, more of her fatherworld as a whole.

And then, just as the neural ghosts’ arguments started to really drill into her, the kids started to scream with excitement and joy. Paulette stilled.

Of course, it was time for Benedic to come, take them back. Because they – she – weren’t even able to visit her parents, her home, without Oberon’s approval. An Amberite was needed to guide them through worlds. Paulette could, of course, ask Oberon’s older children herself, she could, in theory, even order them so – but the times when this theory had been a practice were long, long gone.

She couldn’t walk through the multiverse. If this precarious position she was in changed too drastically, she’d lose her family – one part of it or the other.

Paulette smiled to the screens. Straightened her back.

‘I’ll think about it.’

But her parents, of course, were wise and didn’t believe one word.

II

The house came to life when Random and Mirelle stepped into the garden. Lights turned on, calm, electronic music filled the air, the fountains tried to rise – and managed to do so after a few times, albeit the water in them was brownish from rust.

‘We haven’t seen you in quite a time.’ Grandma sounded slightly offended, but mostly fond.

‘Well. Yes. We…we were busy,’ said Random.

‘One forgets how time flies outside of Amber,’ added Mirelle. ‘One forgets how to count time not in decades, but years.’

‘One forgets one’s own family, too, I see.’ Grandpa was grumpy, harsher than Random remembered. But even the best-made of these Shadow spirits changed in time, as far as he knew. They adjusted, incorporated new experiences and reactions into their melody – or they simply got corrupted.

The best of spirits also had copies, variations and remixes, created to prevent the too easy and irretrievable loss of their personalities. Random had never been interested in the magic behind it –oh, this world claimed it was a science, not magic, but his journeys had taught him there was hardly any difference between the two – except for where it involved music, composing spell, charms and spirits.

Mirelle was different. She seemed to like all things equally. Except for Amber. Amber bored her, she insisted, even if to Random’s ear it sounded more like hatred. And well, she finally had a truly excellent reason for it.

‘Our mother is dead,’ she told the spirits bluntly.

In next moment, Random and Mirelle were attacked by the cascades of colours and flashing lights from all screens, and a cacophony of the strangest sounds, shrieks, cries, alarms, low and high tunes, and music-box false, mechanical sweetness. It took Random a moment to understand this was the way the echoes of his grandparents’ minds mourned. Before this, he’d have wagered they had been able to do so, to feel emotions, not just emulate them. But there was something in that terrible, blinding mix of colours, slings and whizzing, disharmonious noise which convinced him. The utter chaos of it, lack of any followable pattern – it mirrored his own soul quite well. And his own soul was definitely mourning.

They stood there, he and his sister, in the guest-hall, waiting for this fit to pass. And pass it did, it just took spirits some time.

Finally, the house fell dark and silent, again. The screens were pitch black. One could easily have thought that the villa had been abandoned for ages and kept clean by generations of protective familial spirits.

When their grandparents reappeared, they did so on black and white screens, their faces aged by decades.

‘We’re very sorry for your loss,’ said Mirelle. ‘I came as soon as I could.’

‘We have no recent sheets of her,’ said grandpa. ‘She hasn’t visited in a long time. And even when she was still coming, there wasn’t always enough time…’

‘She was ill, recently…,’ offered Random, quickly.

This was true. It was also true that Paulette lost Oberon’s pity and interest a long time before her death, so there’d been no one to guide her through the Shadows. Not to mention she’d passed some time – years, for this Shadow – ago. Mirelle had been still too young to walk the Pattern, then, and Random… Well, Random had reacted by making a tour through bars and dens in Shadows and forgotten about informing poor, magical guardians.

Mirelle had found him a few days ago. He’d congratulated her on making it through the Pattern, she’d hit him in the solar plexus and dragged his ass here.

The Grandparents looked devasted. Random realised he hadn’t thought about what it would have meant to them, not getting her freshest… frame, the basics for the spell, which had kept them and countless others citizens of this Shadow in their post mortem existence.

‘But you have her older records. Not all is lost. You might even prefer the younger version of Mother, she was…’ Mirelle trailed off.

Happier, thought Random. More adventurous. Full of energy and strength, and fire so hot, she had used to be able to say “no” even to Oberon.

‘You knew her younger self better,’ he finished aloud, clumsily. ‘She fits this Sha– this world, this house, better.’

He had a feeling they didn’t believe him. He’d forgotten how clear-sighted they could be.

‘It would be highly untraditional,’ said grandmother weakly.

Random also didn’t remember her as a traditional person… But perhaps it was her reaction to the shock of the news, clinging to the customs. Perhaps she was just afraid of what effect going against spells’ rituals would bring. Random had heard pretty scary stories of the dead coming back wrong.

Mirelle sighed “The situation is far from normal, too,” and walked straight to the study. Random followed – even though he didn’t know much about the procedure. He was a little surprised to see his sister moving so surely through the steps of this Shadow’s magic – and alchemy, for it involved a lot of instruments and mechanisms, too. He got lost in her smooth gestures, music of overchanging, bizarre, rarely used metre coming from the background – and also his own boredom and the fist of the first week without alcohol from who knows how long strangling him.

‘Play.’ Mirelle pushed make-shift drumsticks into his hand, suddenly.

‘What?’

‘Whatever, really. What you feel like. What fits with the flow. This is the part I can’t do so well.’ She looked at him a mix of jealousy and disdain. ‘You didn’t think I dragged you here just so you could look our grandparents in the eyes and as always not apologise.’

‘There’re no drums here.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she shrugged. ‘Drum on the table. Hum something. Just this one thing and then you can go. We won’t need you anymore.’

‘We?’

Mirelle sent him an exasperated look.

‘I’m going to stay. You see how the house looks like, right? They will need help.’

‘They?’ Random felt like an idiot.

‘Our family.’

He could guess she didn’t mean the Amberites. Good for her, he thought, and also: one potential ally, one potential enemy less. He even felt slightly guilty for the last one, for, like three seconds.

He knew music was important for this world’s spells, and if he could help to recreate Mother’s reflection, spirit, marionette, whatever, for them all this way – he didn’t have any excuses not to, not after he had failed them so damn much already.

He took the sticks from her. ‘Sure, sister dear. But don’t blame me if it fails and Mother comes back with a newfound thirst for poker.’


	4. Fiona

“You’re too much like–like her, this... mother of yours.”

Unexpectantly, Oberon’s words stung. Fiona had thought she had been above caring about the king’s opinions, as long as they hadn’t been getting too close to dangerous—for her or her brothers. She had thought—still thought—she’d understood his game, this little fighting ring he’d made of his family, with the scraps of his love and approval as the only prize.

For her siblings were foolish to think Oberon would have ever abdicated—and counting on his death seemed based on very shaky presumptions, when they had no data about his ancestors, let alone about their lifespan.

And yet, the fury and _betrayal_ in his voice hurt Fiona. Incredible. It wasn’t like she hadn’t noticed Oberon’s dislike – growing stronger and stronger, while Dworkin’s fondness and appreciation of her had risen. Almost like _Father_ was jealous, which shouldn’t have surprised her, either—it would be exactly his brand of egotism, possessiveness and childishness.

It took her time, too long, to realise that what hurt wasn’t his anger at her, but the pure loathing and contempt for her mother—that he couldn’t be even bothered to utter, to remember her name.


	5. Deirdre

They sing about her compassion and beauty, and yet never fail to mention her ability to wield an axe. It’s amusing, Deirdre thinks, for what could a woman who killed hundreds know of mercy? When and how to cast it aside?

But perhaps, for Amber standards, it’s enough that she considers them „killed”, considers the lives of Amber’s enemies—people and creatures from Shadows—actual, worthwhile existences, not mere fantasies of Oberon’s brilliant, twisted blood. Perhaps, for her family standards, it’s enough that she smiles with pity and let her eyes mist over when she visits injured soldiers in field hospitals. Perhaps it’s enough that she sighs heavily—beautifully, her voice taking a deeper, inquisitive tone, her slender fingers coming to her temple, pushing loose strands of hair on her forehead, hiding her eyes—counting war losses.

Or, perhaps it was all because of Corwin’s ballads—he tends to start poetic trends, after all – and then her compassion would boil down to a fistful of sticky, chewing caramels: laughing at his jokes, making fun of Eric, kissing his eyelids, his forehead, his nose, his cheeks—a little too close to his mouth, a little too similar to his verses.


	6. Flora

Oh, damn, she is a bomb.

No, no, wait. She’s the bomb. Long, golden hair, lightly curled. The figure which would put Marilyn to shame, bottom like JLo, like one of these Italian or Latino porn actresses, damn. Except so much more class. Ritchie can’t imagine any porn actress in a grey, tight, but high-collared dress – and damn, damn, Ritchie would bet millions of dollars her tits and—the rest—are all natural.

Sure, it’s not like it matters _too much_ , he’s not some bigoted old man, preaching against cosmetic surgery, but it’s a nice bonus. A ribbon on the gift, yup.

‘It’s a pleasure doing business with a man who has such good taste in liquor,’ she—Lena, Lena Some-Swishing-Sounds-ka, from some Slavic country which is not Russia (Peter told him it was her sore spot, and to call her “Lena”, if he can’t manage her surname, and also, that she was _worthy,_ oh so, soooo worthy, to see in person)—smiles over her glass.

Ritchie congrats himself on being clever enough to order wine, not vodka, like his first instinct told him. But he ain’t one to fall into the trap of stereotypes: he showed some sensitivity and sensibility, and now is rewarded with this gorgeous woman’s fond smile. And who knows where will this smile lead him later?

‘It’s a pity,’ she takes something from her purse, a small mirror…no, a card, ‘your taste in friends doesn’t match it.’

Oh yeah, he would very much want to be her friend… Wait, what?

‘Julia.’ Lena was looking at the card intensely. ‘The one you provide with antics and artefacts for her occult. I’m sure you don’t believe in magic and are but a sentient Amazon drone… But unfortunately for you, tools make for good envoys. Bye.’

Before the gears in Ritchie’s head turn a whole circle – making him realise he’s in danger—Lena’s silhouette starts to fade and she—she disappears, like some fucking hologram! Ritchie opens his mouth to scream for his security—

The blow up obliterates his body, shakes the suite and damages four hotel floors.


End file.
